White Wine, Black Nectar
by icor
Summary: In which Vaan and Penelo quickly learn that Bacchus's Wine and haste don't mix well with Fran, and Balthier is left to deal with things unsaid once more. [BalthierFran]


The pain in her head is throwing a tantrum as a gritty sickness takes hold, and she feels the bile stick in the back of her throat. She takes vague, uncharted steps this way and that, and the ground beneath her sinks with every step she might not take. Time itself is pressing in all around her, until even her perception of up and down is twisted. Everything her eyes take in is dull and halo-grey, leaving burning after images; either the world's moving too slowly, or she's out of sync and has discarded the rhythm altogether.

She blinks, looks around, but the world doesn't catch up with her straight away. Even the air is burning, hot white-ash filling her lungs and spreading down her finger tips, until the only sensation she can feel in her entire body is anger. Anger; she thinks she was fighting before this, and her mind is just clear enough to picture the sea-foam green of the magicks which enveloped her.

Vaan has one arm around her waist, trying his best to hold her up, but she's still slumped to the side and being half-dragged along: he's just not tall enough for this. Penelo too is there, trying to support her from the other side, feet fast on the wet Giza ground. There's a sudden halt, and both Vaan and Penelo are offering up explanations in words she can't quite decipher yet.

The ringing in her head stops, and the first thing she sees in slow, hazy flashes is Balthier standing before her, not looking all too happy. The sickness in her stomach swirls and slams against her ribcage, but she can't help but feel better when Balthier reacts instantly, brining one hand up to her cheek to hold up her head. It's so slow that she can feel every movement his hand makes, every twitch of his fingers and brush of his thumb; even the way his palm flexes to fit her skin. She breathes deep, and once again the air tastes cool.

"And dare I ask what inspired you to cast haste on a Viera already aligned with berserk?" Balthier asks, snapping the silence, "_Five_ times, no less."

Both Vaan and Penelo hang their heads and burn the ground away with guilty glares. Somehow Vaan manages to come up with a feeble excuse, assuring Balthier that neither he nor Penelo knew what Bacchus's Wine would do, and that, oh, she was really tearing though the fiends at an alarming rate when they tried out their new haste magick.

"Balthier," Penelo says, voice rich with guilt, "She'll be alright, won't she?"

"I suppose so; Fran is tougher than she looks, and _that's_ saying something. Her system is just overloaded with magicks, and they seem to be conflicting inside her."

Vaan nods enthusiastically, happy with the diagnosis – if Fran's fine, then he is too. He doesn't have to worry about coming face to face with the wrong end of Balthier's gun _just_ yet. "Right! What shall we do to help?" he asks, just to make things right.

"You've done enough," Balthier says, stepping forwards, "A potion should do it."

Balthier sighs, and curses himself under his breath. The trip to the Giza Plains was meant to be a simple search for loot to sell, problem free; he suddenly finds himself envying Basch and the Lady Ashe, who he is becoming more and more convinced have made the right decision by staying in Rabanastre, no matter how stuffy the city is. Penelo fumbles around in her bag and places the last potion in Balthier's hand.

He nods thankfully and then stretches out an arm. Vaan stares at him blankly for a few seconds, trying to work out just what it is that Balthier wants now. Realisation hits, and he mouths a silent "Oh," as he passes Fran into the Sky Pirate's waiting arms.

She falls easily into them, and even in such a state of delirium and warped realities, she can tell that she fits. He moves his arms around her, knowing exactly how and where to hold her to keep her stable. It's familiar and _right_; nothing like Vaan's clumsy grip. Balthier thinks he sees Penelo smile and flush out of the corner of his eye, but pays her no heed.

"You sure you don't need any help?" Vaan asks, placing both hands on the back of his head.

"No, no," Balthier urges them on, waving with his free hand, "Your city awaits you, and all."

They say their goodbyes and apologise in the same breath, and Balthier slowly makes his way with Fran across the Plain. While he was off picking up scattered treasure, Vaan, Penelo and Fran certainly did a good job cleaning up the place; there are no fiends, and while the ground is damp, that can't be helped. Still, wet grass is a better option than Fran trying to stand in her current condition.

He loosens his hold of her and brings her to the ground, arms clasping her shoulders because she isn't quite sure where the tree she's supposed to be leaning against is. Balthier sits down, and in the same moment that he goes to put an arm around her, she falls to the side and lays against him. He smiles for her, though she cannot see it, and unscrews the potion with one hand.

Fran likes the way Balthier feels – the way _she_ feels pressed against him – even if the effect isn't physical. She can barely hold back the urge to vomit, and the haze the haste has wrapped all around her makes stars explode behind her eyelids and leave milky-white smudges to obscure her vision. Balthier's chest rocks slowly beneath her, and it's cooling in a world of magicks and fire; Balthier knows her like no other. Time will make sense again soon, and the anger has already flickered out.

It takes her a while to realise that he's been talking in high spirits for quite some time, and it's not until she feels his fingers press against and part her lips that she's forced back into reality. He tips the clear-blue bottle and she drinks it slowly; unfortunately, the riot in her body isn't enough to dull the taste, and she isn't sure how she keeps the foul drug down.

"Now, if we rest here for a while, you should be as good as new in no time my dear," Balthier says, and his words are already clearer.

Her skin is still burning up when he presses the back of his hand against her forehead, and he knows from seeing the Viera's rage before that only time will help; time, however, is playing the menace. He watches with a mixture of amusement and concern as red-eyes frantically dart back and forth, fixing on him for only the briefest moments, yet seeming to learn everything they want to know.

Removing his arm from around her waist, Balthier turns on his knees so that they're face to face, and tentatively raises his hands to her temples. With a hint of hesitation (one she would have missed, had the whole world not been so slow) he takes the helm from her head, the one she wears like a crown, and discards it in the dirt beside them.

"Ah, now that's better."

Balthier sounds satisfied for reasons Fran can't pick apart, and shifts once more.

"Are you well enough to be moved?" Balthier asks her, and she just about manages a conscious nod.

With a kiss on the forehead (one that should not last as long as it does) he steps around her. She feels his hands at her waist, and he gently urges her forward a little – just enough to slide down between her back and the tree trunk.

Either the potion finally kicks in, or the way that his head rests on her shoulder coupled with his rhythmic breathing forces her to concentrate on nothing else; one or the other, because Fran feels the waves of sickness slowly wash away.

"I'm sure you know all about Bacchus's Wine, and the man – or god, I should say – himself. Quite a wild fellow that one, and here we Humes have gone and added our own little kick to nectar of the gods. No wonder it sent you into a rage; Fran, I believe you're going to have something of a hangover when you wake up tomorrow morning."

Balthier earns a laugh for this, and already she can feel the potent Wine draining out of her system. The after-effects of haste, however, are still present, and every word Balthier speaks is drawn out and meticulous.

Literally seizing the opportunity with both hands while he still has it, Balthier brings his fingers up to her hair, and with a hum, begins combing through it. Just as when he had first brought his palm to her cheek, the sensation is slowed down and exaggerated; the movements are soft and make her skin burn in away she does not object to, and her lips part ever-so slightly as her breathing hitches. He draws her hair in front of her, and brings his lips onto the back of her exposed neck, only stopping once he hears an almost inaudible moan. She is still shaken; he should not do too much at the moment, no matter how much he wants to trace invisible circles on the back of her neck with his mouth. He holds her still, and rests his head against her back; he stops moving, almost completely, but this does not mean that his shallow breathing stops bringing up goosebumps on her skin.

"Balthier," she says in awkward words that she can barely force out of her throat, "The Wine is not good for me."

Balthier laughs heartily as she struggles to state the obvious, and says, "Yes, well this means that you're going to have to behave from now on."

The amused beat of his voice makes her light up, and she places a hand on his knee.

"Behave," she says, playing with the word on her tongue, "And this is coming from the man who walked Golmore for three hours poisoned and did not ask for an antidote."

Balthier raises his hands in defeat. "And by the time we were done I was talking in tongues, and you had the dubious honour of carrying me back to the Strahl."

He talks too easily for a man who has not yet forgotten what was said, and is not proud enough to blame it on the intoxicants that were pounding through his veins. Fran wonders if she did the right thing by choosing to ignore his honest words back then; they were (_are_) too difficult to comprehend, and it is not loved-laced whispers she wants from Balthier. It's the silence she loves most of all, and the way neither one ever has to say anything for a smile to warm their lips. She feels old with him; old, but neither frail nor damaged. The time they've spent together shouldn't be enough to forge the bond they have; somehow, they have trust beyond their years.

"We should be getting back, Fran," he says casually, and she was so sure he meant to say something so different, "Vaan tells me there's a reasonably priced inn in Old Town with a fantastic view of a brick wall."

The idea of soft bedsheets and rest (or bedsheets and Balthier) is a pleasant one, and with the thought ripe in her mind she tenses her fingers and scrapes her nails across Balthier's thigh. She doesn't use enough pressure to tear his trousers, because she has learnt the hard way not to do this, but he tenses under her. That feeling – Balthier responding to her, and her alone – pulls her smile back into to play.

"Feeling better?" Balthier asks, and she can almost hear him grinning.

Fran nods, rising to her feet, and pretends that she doesn't need Balthier's outstretched hands on the back of her legs to support her. She turns her head and a moment later Balthier is already on his feet. As he reaches a hand out towards her, she turns and wraps her fingers around his wrists. For once _he_ looks caught off-guard, but doesn't have time to do more than raise an eyebrow as she presses against him (and she thinks she might have stumbled, but she gets where she wants to be in the end whatever happened).

"Too slow, Pirate," she says, but the words are lost as their lips meet.

She doesn't let him kiss her right away, and every time he leans in towards her she moves back a hair's width. Their lips are always grazing, and he groans out of irritation. She knows all too well that she cannot put gold before a man like Balthier and not expect him to steal it away. In the years they've been free together, he's stolen so many things she gave up to him in the first place, and so, as ever, so gives into him. She kisses him, quietly but not silent, and one hand finds its way to the back of his neck as the other clings to the back of his shirt.

He pulls away first, something she is not used to, but the look in his eyes makes it worth it, somehow. With a sigh, happy and light, he rests his forehead against hers, voice wordless on his lips and filling her chest with things that Viera aren't supposed to feel for Humes.

The rain begins to fall as Balthier takes a step away. But before he is out of reach, he stretches a hand out behind him and takes hers in his own; the motion freezes Fran on the spot, and in uncertain words she asks:

"What are you doing?"

Fingers still entwined, Balthier lifts their hands up. "I believe I'm holding your hand, Fran."

Nothing else needs to be said on the matter, and so she follows, but does not take her eyes of their tightly held hands. She has seen people do this before, of course, but the simple gesture weighs down on her. The gravity of the situation is not something she's dealt with before, even with acts more intimate, but she squeezes his hand because it feels like the right thing to do.

Balthier turns his head, and his smile makes her soften. But there are still words caught in her throat, and it seems like the only thing she can do is breathe them out—

"Balthier, I—" she begins, but stops dead with no intention of continuing.

He barely waits half a second before replying to her.

"I know," he says, squeezing her hand in return, "I do too."

She watches his back, as she always does – the sky pirate and his partner – and is glad no more words pass her lips. They are alone, together, and no one watches; she raises her free hand and wraps it around his wrist, tentatively. The quiet understanding between them relaxes her, and she turns deaf ears on the world, enjoying the way his thumb brushes her palm without meaning to. Time slows down, but Balthier is still a step ahead of her, just the way it should be.


End file.
